A Tango of a Different Nature
by OverThexM00N
Summary: He has turned into a predator, and she's the prey that keeps returning despite it all. Drunken Roger rambling, just a warning in case you don't like drunk angry Roger. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer:** Don't own them (them being Roger and Mimi).

For every step there is an aluminum can. _Step, crinkle, step, crinkle._ Flattening them beneath his bare feet while struggling to keep her in his sight. Empty anger and alcohol clouding his logic. She is darting, flitting about the loft. Attempting to escape his hands, hands that move without his consent, beyond his control. Angry hands that hurt her. She is a beautiful moth in the moonlight, pursued by a famished and frenzied bat. Beautiful. If only her beauty could make him sober.

Through the vibrant red that blinds him he gropes the air. Suddenly there is a fistful of her hair in his hand. Pulling it, bringing it to his face. Smells like roses, making him forget his anger and suspicion as it tickles his nose. But then a new scent, underlying, beneath the roses and the cocoa and the smell of their bedsheets. Smells like another man. Anger flaring up again, fingers tightening around the locks. He laces his fingers through before yanking.

On the ground now, lying silent among the cans. Little wounded moth, wings torn and dirty. Angry hands did that to her. Eyes watching the motionless creature among the cans. How many cans? Eight, ten, thirteen. Nineteen cans. Most dented, many flattened, all empty. Flattened by his feet as he danced around, spun in circles to watch her. Eyes never left her since she came. What were eyes doing before she came? What were hands doing?

Eyes were watching door, hands were holding cans, can after can, tossing them absently to the ground once finished. Eyes, ears, mouth, everything waiting. Blank, not angry yet. Anger sleeping, hibernating beneath his skin, deep within, but alert and ready. Ready to pounce, erupt, ignited by her sight. Alcohol made him more wary, amplified every noise, every smell. Predator. He became a predator, awaiting the return of his prey.

Climbing on top of her now. Bat devouring the moth, the poor little moth, beauty and power stripped away from her. Little moth left with nothing. Ripping her shirt off, angry hands wandering over what is his and his only. Calming, the soothing feeling of her flawless skin against his calloused hands. Repressed whimpering, her body tremoring while his fingers worked their way downward. Completely naked beneath him, crushed cans piercing exposed skin. Working his shirt off now, hands pressing over her mouth when she screams out in agony.

Lips brushing against her body, anywhere and everywhere. Working up, working down, covering all areas. Against her ear now, and moving to her mouth. She whines, cringing away. The smell of alcohol on his breath like poison to her. Tired, very tired, despite her constant writhing beneath him. Like a frantic rocking. Mother used to rock him, but gently. Rock-a-bye baby. Very tired. Still on top of her, resting his head beside hers, face burying into mocha hair.

But then that smell again. The unfamiliar smell of another man, another woman, a stranger that is not him. Evoking a fury he never knew he was capable of. Angry hands clamping onto her hair again, gnarled fingernails tangling with the strands. Anger giving him the energy to stand, dragging her up to her feet. Twisting her, jolting her, caught up in a tango of rage that neither can escape from until he at last throws her against the wall.

The sound of her body thumping against the wall, her voice crying out from the impact. It satisfies his anger. Wavering from side to side, vision going in and out of focus. The damaged moth, still crying on the floor when her aggressor crashes to the ground.

It won't take her long to mend, that poor little moth. She will fly away tonight, before he wakes up again, head aching and with no recollection of ever harming her. She won't give him the chance to apologize because he won't really be sorry. He has had enough chances. Without a suitcase, without the smallest possession to call her own, the moth departs into the night. This time she won't be returning.


End file.
